


The Hanging Garden

by kinpika



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Finding Family, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-29 00:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8468755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: Ghosts of the past always find some way to haunt in the future. Even in the most beautiful and mythical of places.[Character exploration, set twenty years before current story, multiple povs]





	1. Chapter 1

_-early 2056-_

Jesse McCree is seventeen. At least, he’s fairly sure he is.

Back in the gang, he got a slap on the back and told to get back to work, that being seventeen was hard. _A hard year_ , they said, except they also said that about fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Maybe it was a life expectancy thing, but Jesse never really paid much attention to that kind of shit. That was the kind of talk schools gave, and Jesse hadn’t set foot in one of those in years. Hell, didn’t even know if his name was still a thing back home, or if it was just something that stuck over the years. There was a lot Jesse didn’t know about himself, but it didn’t really matter.

After all, he was seventeen. Young and dumb. A criminal — _wanted_ , dead or alive. Trafficking, armed robbery, the good ol’ shoot ‘em ups. Jesse hadn’t ever thought there would be a file on him, but when the datapad hits the top of the table, it leaves a resounding sound that rings in his ears. There was a moment, where he does think that someone, somewhere, was keeping a check on his life, and that he _was_ seventeen year old Jesse McCree from Santa Fe, New Mexico. Not some cock-and-bullshit story fed to him over the years. 

Except that feeling goes, when in front of him, a guy slams his hands on the table, giving him a once over. This guy was all over the news at one point, till Jesse stopped caring what all the well-funded men of the world were doing in their spare time, playing hero. That was what little kids dreamt of being, Jesse was sure. Though, he couldn't say if he remembered ever having such kind of dreams. All he could remember was nights holding his gun close, and being ready to wake at the sound of engines kicking into high gear, suggesting he be abandoned, _again_. 

“You’re in a whole lot of shit, you know.”

Slowly, Jesse blinks. Well, the cuffs around his wrists would’ve given that away. Oh, and perhaps how Overwatch finally managed to bust their operations, like they finally noticed something going down southwest. Most of the senior members of Deadlock managed to flee, leaving the rest of them to fall or surrender. Typical of a bunch of ugly old men, only in it for themselves. 

For hours, Jesse had been holed up in those old warehouses, loading and reloading, moving when Overwatch got too close. Almost went on all night, until the exhaustion got to him, along with the power getting cut and the heat climbing in. Lack of food might have done something to him too, but when Jack Morrison got the drop on him, quite literally from the railing above, Jesse knew it was all over.

Whilst Jesse was proud he didn’t wet himself as the Strike-Commander of Overwatch pointed a much bigger weapon at him, he kind of wished he went down fighting. Went out in a blaze of glory, not just thrown in the back of transport, hands bound, unarmed. Rest of his gang members staring at him, various forms of bruising and beating on their faces, knowing that he was the last one. Last man standing. 

Their rights were read to them on the way over. Two soldiers with body armour and full masks, voices broken up by technology Jesse hadn’t had the pleasure of encountering just yet. Strangers, who mocked them as they read out some old bunch of words that really didn’t change the future for them. 

With a frown, Jesse shifts in his chair. The man opposite hadn’t moved yet, watching him so closely it was like a snake who encountered his prey (Jesse didn’t like the sinking feeling of comparing himself to a dumbass rabbit, but there it was). Clearing his throat, Jesse found a more comfortable position, where it didn’t feel like his legs were going to go completely to sleep, and opened his mouth. “Sir,” he starts, assuming it was the right thing to do, “with all due respect—”

“How did you manage to shoot as far as you did?”

“Uh, ‘scuse me?”

“This,” the man pulls out the weapon Jesse had been holding onto for dear life back in that warehouse. Pissy little thing, now that he looked at it in the light. In his hands at that time, it felt that much bigger, “doesn’t have a scope.”

“Good eye.” Jesse can’t help the snide comment, and closes his eyes immediately. Fuck, he thinks, fuck fuck fuck. Whatever good graces he was in for the moment would no doubt not appreciate that.

Nothing. Daring to peek an eye open, Jesse is surprised to find a mildly amused look on the man’s face. “Funny, I was just about to say the same thing to you.”

Jesse can feel the flush running up his cheeks, and doesn’t quite meet the man’s eye. Doesn’t know what to say, whether to take the compliment, or just ask where this was all headed. Surely, he had several years lined up in some nice jail. Maybe in ten he’d get out on bail for good behaviour. Maybe if he got a good enough lawyer, he could plead being a juvenile — or insanity, if all else failed. That’s what they always did on those old vids some of the guys watched, when Jesse got stuck with guard duty and had to walk past wherever they’d holed up for the night.

“Sir, I don’t understand where this is goin’.” It takes some effort, to get the words out. But he doesn’t. Jesse truly doesn’t understand where this is going, what’s his angle (if there even was one). Slowly, a thought creeps in, that this might be one of those mental torture techniques one of the mechanics used to tell him about when he was younger, and Jesse didn’t want to be a _vegetable_. 

“Look, just, I know I did somethin’ stupid, and I’m sorry I shot your men.” Jesse wasn’t, but the man didn’t have to know that. “Lemme go, please.”

The amusement fades, somewhat, and that cold feeling returns to Jesse’s bones. “Do you know how much your head is worth right now. If I let you go, what would it be worth in twenty, thirty years?”

“Don’t know, sir.” That was a frightening thought. Jesse would happily take prison, right now, over anything else this man had in mind. Not like he hadn’t seen the posters, scattered everywhere, especially out this way. What was he supposed to say? That they didn’t get his nose right?

“Math not your strong point, huh? In thirty years, you might just be worth sixty million, kid. Assuming you play your cards right.”

“You a fortune teller or something?” A pause. “Sir.” In the back of his mind, he could vaguely hear an old woman shouting about manners. Not his mother, never met the woman, but it might’ve been his favourite sister, back at the orphanage. Before the gang, everything else was kind of fuzzy.

By now, Jesse was sure all the other men were probably tried and shoved off to wherever they held gangbangers these days. Damn, he didn’t even know how many _days_ it had been since then and now. Jesse was assuming it was days, as he hadn’t been sitting in the room for long, and didn’t remember much apart from words murmured around him. Talk about his aim, crime, his age. Irrelevant little things that made him a great asset to Deadlock — no one suspected him until it was too late. 

No one had to know that, either. 

“You have two choices, kid.” Snapping his eyes up, Jesse frowned as the man held up two fingers, as if trying to drive a point about ‘maths not being his strong point’. “We send you to jail. You’ll get a good few years for all the shit you’ve pulled, but shooting at Overwatch will get you slammed harder than you’ve been in your life. I wouldn’t be surprised if you get thirty plus.”

Jesse decides the guy quite liked the sound of his own voice, the way he talked, but saw no reason to interrupt. Not when he was almost imagining life in prison — he’d end up like that one guy they broke out that one time, all tattooed and shaved head. Always looked at Jesse kind of funny, another part of the reason why Jesse took to sleeping with a knife under his pillow. 

“What’s the second option?” Thankfully, his voice didn’t shake, even if his hands were. Damn, he wanted a smoke. He wanted out of these cuffs. Jesse wanted to go back enough years so that he wouldn’t end up like this.

“You join _my_ team.”

Well, talk about coming out of the left field. Jesse balks, simply because he hadn’t ever considered that to be a thing. Overwatch was so big and full of people with perfectly white teeth and clear skin, not scrawny kids who got by with patches of skin that could have been a tan or simply dirt from the roads (Jesse couldn’t remember the last time he had a decent bath). They all wanted to be a hero, and he just wanted to keep on.

Jesse almost wanted to ask for a third option. There was always a third option, in all those books that were read to them in the orphanage. Made the hero who saved the world and got the girl. Not necessarily in that order. Although Jesse wasn’t sure if he wanted to save the world, or get the girl, he just wanted that freedom.

“Both sound kinda awful.” Never let it be said that he wasn’t honest, and there’s that grin on the man’s face, saying something other than what Jesse thinks it’s supposed to mean. Like there’s something he doesn’t _know_ but may find out — or not, and be forever in the dark. 

“You don’t have time to make a choice. Those men out there want to throw the book at you, and I managed to talk them down long enough to drag you out here.”

“Generous of you.” Jesse isn’t sarcastic, but he narrows his eyes. Tries to figure out where the man is coming from, why he’s so interested. It’s just a gun, and Jesse is just a kid. Not much to cop flak over, if that was the case.

Making an affirmative noise, the man pushes the datapad closer to Jesse once more. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”

Quickly, Jesse looks down at the datapad, something that quite possibly contained his life and answers to all his questions, and back up at the disappearing back. “Wait, what are you… How do you know all this?”

There is no answer, and Jesse wasn’t sure if he honestly expected one. Eyes flick over to the clock in the corner of the datapad. Ten minutes. Was that enough time to decide? Like it knew its purpose, the datapad lights up, opening up his file without him touching the screen. Jesse looked back at an old photo of himself, the kind of photo that was printed out on all those ‘wanted’ posters, and could feel the world fracture, just a little. As if reality finally decided it was high time he caught up. 

Locations, times, information. So much _damn_ information, tracking him since the day he’d joined Deadlock almost. Made Jesse’s skin crawl, that people were watching him so damn closely, and yet not at all, as he follows links to his bosses’ files. Only two were greyed out (dead, one shot through the eye, the other trampled in the retreat). Rest were marked ‘LOCATION UNKNOWN’, and Jesse knew exactly where they would be. It’s where he would go too, if he had the choice.

Maybe he could bargain a deal, whittle down his sentence. Surely they’d want information on how to really pull the last few lines of the Deadlock Gang, one of their last hidden caches. Jesse wasn’t supposed to know it, but the girls liked him enough to tell him, whenever he got stuck with fixing the curlers. Oh, he realises, were they there? As he was dragged out, Jesse didn’t see any of the girls in the transports, nor in the body pile. He hoped they got away safe. He hoped—

That he hadn’t considered selling out his gang. What would that say about him, to anyone? Loyalty, fucking loyalty. Good ol’ Jesse McCree, trust him until he needs an out. Jesse could see it now, how much they’d never tell him anything again and he tugs at his hair as much as he could, cuffs and all. He didn’t know what to do. There was no voice from between the clouds, and no ancestor coming to tell him not to fuck up. 

Then again, Jesse had never been one for having a guiding hand, telling him to not go out behind the church, and shoot at cans. To not hide when the Deadlock Gang drove past, and hold his dumb little tommy gun and firing at the windows. They took him. No please and thank you, just his favourite sister screaming as she ran after the bikes. There’s nothing in the way of pictures after that, just memories of handling guns, staying with the girls. Making sure the babes didn’t cry during a trade at the bar, and that it was _good_ for him to be there. That he should be thankful, Jesse, or James, or John. Whatever they all called him. Kid. Jesse the Kid. 

Looking down at the data once more, there were words Jesse didn’t understand, and acronyms that meant nothing, but his blood type was B and his eyes were brown. How they knew that, before he had a chance to reveal it or learn it himself, made his skin crawl, and he keeps reading. Finding out about himself. What to do. Who to be. Was he this Jesse McCree, typed up and formatted, or was he someone else. Someone he didn’t know. Oh god, Jesse could feel his eyes start to burn, at what exactly he didn’t know, but maybe it was everything. 

Ten minutes was up before he realised, and Jesse watches the door open once more. The man’s back, and he’s not smiling anymore as another man walks in behind him. They’re kind of blurry because of the tears still in his eyes, and Jesse wipes his nose on his sleeve, never minding present company. Jack Morrison was in the room, frowning so hard that Jesse has to bite the quip on his tongue before he spills. 

“You made up your mind yet?” 

No, he hadn’t. Not in the slightest. “Yeah,” he says, voice faraway even to his own ears. “Yeah, I’ve decided.”

They weren’t kidding about seventeen being a hard year. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time is gonna be jumping around in this a little (but the year will be noted). mostly mccree pov.
> 
> edit; realises i didnt add a summary.. lol..


	2. Chapter 2

_\- mid 2056 -_

“Again.”

Blinking a few times, Jesse realised he had made it to the ground once more, flat on his back. It was something he was starting to get used to, actually, the more time he made it down. Always when he thought he finally got the jump on Reyes, it was like he had another limb. One day, he would get him, but that day wasn’t today. “Lulling me into a false sense of security,” Jesse mumbles, pushing himself up slowly, “cheap shot.”

Reyes does his usual no-nonsense sort of look, that Jesse was slowly becoming immune to. He’d survived basic, and what he considered to be expert, training by the skin of his teeth. Not that running and jumping and climbing really had him all bothered — it was the fear that one of the other men he was shoved in beside were going to smother him in his sleep. Trained alongside the future of Overwatch’s soldiers, knowing full well that he was a criminal, was something else. A criminal on a very short leash, Jesse added, frowning as he remembered that pieces of important information.

And Reyes was very insistent that, _no_ , he was not allowed to sleep with a knife under his pillow this time. That he should consider himself to be in the safest place on Earth, right now. Definitely didn’t feel like it, considering Jesse still wasn’t sure if he was six feet under, and if the light that came in his window was artificial or not. But he did his work, and trained for some task in the future Reyes never let him in on (yet), and brushed his teeth and hair, looking every bit presentable that was asked of him. Cleaned the guns and lingered around the range, waiting for whenever Reyes gave him the ‘okay’. The okay to be something other than a glorified prisoner.

If on impulse, his left arm starts to twitch again, a reminder of the tracker that was holding him there, and Reyes sighs. “Forget it. Take a break.”

Jesse swallows the argument, because as much as he’d like to prove he could keep going, there was no feeling in his legs. They’d been sparring going on and off near two hours now but that never bothered Jesse. All the sparring in the world would never bother him, as it meant he was still here and not in prison. Cooperation was key, as Reyes had told him. And the more cooperation that came out of Jesse, the more he was given in the way of freedom. 

Reyes was good like that, playing devil’s advocate. Overwatch gave him some order, and Reyes turned around and told Jesse to just be _good_. Whatever good was. 

But no sparring meant the questions about what he would spend the rest of his day doing, and even as Jesse takes the offered hand from Reyes, getting to his feet, he was already rolling his eyes. 

“Done your work yet?”

No, he thinks. No, he hadn’t done the ‘paperwork’, as Reyes called it. A polite way of saying the _class_ work he’d been slugged with over the last few months. Apparently, some part of Jesse’s lack of education deeply offended a sensibility in Commander Morrison, or Reyes, or some other higher up who knew about him. Wasn’t like Jesse couldn’t _read_ , and he had a basic grasp of maths. If he needed to clean a gun, there was that too. Jesse hadn’t yet found a purpose for algebra when sparring, but if it meant he that he wasn’t cooped up in his assigned room for so long, then he’d do it.

“Yessir,” he mumbles, brushing his nose and pushing at his jaw. That last push, getting the flat of Reyes’ palm against his chin, really did a number on him. 

Clicking his tongue, Reyes turns away, bare feet slapping against the padded flooring. Jesse knew he’d been caught out in a lie, but didn’t try to defend himself. Reyes would chew him out for lying later, and trying to take it back now would just make him _really_ mad for being dishonest. Neither options were looking particularly pleasant, and Jesse just walked behind him, hands on hips. What he wouldn’t do for a smoke right now.

“Morrison.” At the gravelly roll of Reyes’ voice, Jesse shrinks behind him, just a little bit, and peers around. Lo and behold, the great Strike Commander had decided to grace them with his presence. Reyes seemed to think so too, as he crosses his arms, and seems to puff up. Make himself look bigger. 

All the other men in the background training went just a little quieter. Jesse looks around and notes how eyes seem to watch as Morrison walks closer, warm smile on his face. Did he really not notice what was going on around him? It was not the first time Jesse had to wonder how it was decided Morrison would be Commander instead of Reyes. At least Reyes’ men respected him.

Jesse couldn’t stop the smirk at that thought, and watched as a muscle jumped in Reyes’ cheek. Oh man, he was _really_ pissed off. One of the few times it wasn’t directed at Jesse, especially in the last few months. Honestly, Jesse wasn’t sure the last time Reyes had actually ventured outside their assigned floor, as they’d been in ‘lockdown’. The other guys wouldn’t tell him if it was serious or not, but Jesse supposed that Morrison being able to walk in nullified any doubts in his mind that they were truly in lockdown.

“What do you want?”

Morrison says something or other that means nothing to Jesse. A code he hadn’t been taught yet, except that really didn’t bother him as much as it should’ve. Just watching how Reyes reacted, visibly and outright for him to see, said far more. From being out on the road so often, Jesse was forced to pick up on subtle clues in behaviour. Helped when he was brought to stand in on meetings back then and be able to determine when the other guys wanted to start shooting. 

And, well, Reyes kind of looked like that ‘if I had a gun’ feeling Jesse got a lot of the time, even if he’d been thrown out cold turkey. Despite not being the most open of guys Jesse had ever met, there were times when it just showed on his face. How Morrison missed the cue to shut up was something Jesse didn’t understand, and he peers around Reyes again. Makes himself known.

“Oh, you’re still here.”

Giving a small salute, Jesse has the movement accompanied with a toothy grin, and looks up at Reyes. There was still some give in Reyes’ attitude towards him, but Jesse understood the vaguely unimpressed expression there, and feels his grin falter a little. 

“I was just showing Dr Ziegler around, actually.” Jesse assumes that this is supposed to be heard, from how Morrison looks over at him again. Despite the urge to tell him that there was no one else by the door apart from them, Jesse bites his tongue. Reyes should be proud his lessons were paying off.

“She wasn’t due for another month,” Reyes finally says, back to crossing his arms, face smooth. Back to being unreadable. Jesse took that as a sign that he wasn’t supposed tone here now, likely.

“Well, she’s very insistent.” 

“We were supposed to meet her in Hollywood. Not _here_.” Jesse still wasn’t sure where ‘here’ was, but at least it narrowed it down to not being anywhere near Deadlock Gorge, or Hollywood. Only a few thousand square miles left

Not once in his life would Jesse have believed he would honestly see the Strike Commander backpedal so hard, but here it was, happening before him. “I—yes, well—”

“Jack, no one is supposed to be here apart from my team, remember?” Despite edging away a little, at the firm cut from Reyes’ eyes, Jesse stays close by. Listening in on something he wasn’t supposed to (and it seemed like no matter where he was, Deadlock or Overwatch, that’s what he was always doing).

“Higher ups thought it would be best if Dr Ziegler met you here.”

Jesse hears the ‘of course they did’, even if Reyes doesn’t say it entirely out loud. There was only one other higher up that Jesse had personally met, and they were just as stiff as Reyes told him they would be. Why a bunch of politicians were a part of Overwatch was something Jesse didn’t understand, but he didn’t think about it much. He left all that griping to Reyes before his morning coffee and paper.

“Well, where is she?”

“In the hall.” Morrison even hitches a thumb over his shoulder as he says it. Jesse follows, if only because he hadn’t been told to stay behind, not yet anyway. Surely, Reyes would get his hackles up soon enough about him being there, but Jesse had noticed there was a certain amount of tunnel vision, especially in the last week, and he’d wait it out. Maybe Reyes would appreciate him being there — and Jesse wasn’t going to deny he was interested. Whoever this ‘Dr Ziegler’ was, she got Reyes mad. And if Reyes got mad about something, Jesse had learnt it would be useful probably later. 

As Jesse follows, he tries to pronounce what he assumes to be the surname of the doctor, copying under his breath how Morrison had said it. _Zee-guhler_ , that’s how Morrison sounded it out. Didn’t quite sound right, Jesse’s tongue catching on the second syllable, and he runs up the back of Reyes. Whoops, noticed. Reyes does that eyebrow-jump thing he never notices he does when he’s somewhat surprised but mostly annoyed. Jesse grins, because he really had nothing to offer as to why he was following apart from snooping. At least Reyes had been very determined to drill into him honesty, and Reyes couldn’t be mad at him for that.

Just as Reyes opens his mouth to argue, Morrison clears his throat. “This is Dr Angela Ziegler, from the Swiss Headquarters. Dr Ziegler, this is—”

“Gabriel Reyes, yes, I know.” Her voices is accented and Jesse notes the pinch in her cheek as she speaks, but Ziegler shakes Reyes hand regardless. Jesse has been around people enough to know her snappy tone wasn’t intentionally directed towards Reyes, even if that look in his eye said it was.

Watching as her eyes darted around the corridor, Jesse did have to wonder if she brought any of her own people with her. There was a certain measure of fear holding her shoulders stiff, and he felt an increasing amount of sympathy. Morrison is talking for the entire company, talking about the Swiss and Overwatch and how great it will be, as Jesse ducks under Reyes’ arms. 

Ziegler doesn’t back up, but Jesse notes how she folds her arms over her chest. She barely reached his shoulders, and he was still growing, according to the data. It was then that despite the bags under her eyes and the sour look on her face, Jesse noticed she wasn’t that old. He could attribute it to the title throwing him, and how Morrison was harping on about the head of whatever, Jesse didn’t really care. But, man, she was _young_. 

“I’m Jesse,” he says, holding out his hand. “Jesse McCree.”

Morrison had finally shut up, and Reyes was burning holes into the back of his head, but Ziegler finally smiles. “Angela Ziegler, pleased to meet you.” Her accent catches on certain letters, dragging out the tone, but she’s relaxed a little. Later, Jesse might attribute it to his youthful charms when asked about it, but at that moment he just firmly shakes her hand. Solidarity in the fear of being in a strange place (he would never admit it to Reyes, but Jesse doesn’t sleep at night, so he understands why Ziegler keeps looking around, waiting for something bad to happen). 

“Nice to meet you, Angela.” Jesse smiles when _Angela’s_ smile widens, and when they release hands, she’s no longer buried under that bite. Morrison claps his shoulder, and asks Reyes to lead them around. 

“You’re coming too, kid.”

There’s an emotion in Reyes’ eyes Jesse can’t quite place, but it looks something like approval. Not much, but just enough to have him smile at the floor as he walks beside Angela.


End file.
